


this place could be beautiful

by dollsome



Category: Grace and Frankie (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-03-07 09:46:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13432116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollsome/pseuds/dollsome
Summary: Set after season 4. Snippets of Grace and Frankie piecing their lives back together, together.





	1. it should hurt

**Author's Note:**

> For nearly all of last year, I was all, "I think I'm retired from writing fanfiction!", and then season four happened, and with it rose up my irrepressible need to make everything more satisfying than it was. Oops!
> 
> Title comes from [this beautiful poem](http://dollsome-does-tumblr.tumblr.com/post/147177604028/mightequinn-good-bones), and really kinda takes the quote out of context. I never said I was a role model!

_... Any decent realtor, _

_ walking you through a real shithole, chirps on _

_ about good bones: This place could be beautiful, _

_ right? You could make this place beautiful. _

-Maggie Smith, ‘Good Bones’

* * *

They hold hands in silence for a long time. After awhile, it’s all Grace can feel. Not her traitorous knees, or her aching feet, or the ocean breeze. Just her right hand, holding Frankie’s left hand so hard it should hurt. It doesn’t.

“So do we … go back?” Even saying the words makes her feel twenty years older. All of the giddy rush of before (fleeing like Thelma and Louise in that stupid cart, basking in the plain ebullient joy of trusting Frankie to steer them haphazardly home) has gone right out of her. But what else can they do? The house --  _ their  _ house -- is gone. It might as well have crumbled all the way to the ground. It’s not theirs anymore.

Frankie doesn’t answer at first. Grace looks over at her. It always shocks her how steely Frankie can look in moments like these. She reminds Grace of the ocean somehow.

“Fuck no,” Frankie says at last.

“Yeah,” Grace says, grimly pleased. “Fuck no.”

She squeezes Frankie’s hand. Frankie squeezes back.


	2. roughing it

Instead, they ignore all of the panicked incoming calls from the kids and crash at Sol and Robert’s house after deciding that they’re the family members they’re the least pissed at. Granted, they didn’t exactly stick up for Grace and Frankie two months ago; just agreed absently that the beach house was in unlivable condition and that this new place was really a very lovely old folks home. They’ve been too busy with whatever the fuck is going on with them to pay much attention to anyone else in the family for awhile now. That’s fine by Grace. If there’s one thing she’s learned over the years, it’s that where Sol and Robert are concerned, it’s usually best not to ask.

She and Frankie are put up in the office, with a fold-out sofa to call their own. Sol offers that them the bed in the master bedroom instead, but there’s a line that Grace refuses to step over in this whole fucked up extended family situation, and it’s sleeping in her gay ex-husband and Frankie’s gay ex-husband’s marriage bed.

The sofa bed isn’t so bad. After all that time being treated like a centuries-old porcelain doll slash infomercial star, it’s kind of satisfying to rough it.

“Oh, please,” Frankie says when Grace voices this thought. “This isn’t roughing it. You know the story about when my yurt exploded.”

“Actually, I don’t,” Grace says, “because you still haven’t managed to tell it to me from start to finish.”  


"Well, we've got time now," says Frankie.

"We do," Grace agrees.

And so she and Frankie sit on the sofa bed, facing each other like girls at a sleepover, and Frankie tells the complete and unabridged tale of her yurt exploding. It is, Grace has to admit, pretty good. Maybe even worth the wait.


	3. the throople

Robert and Sol keep getting texts from someone named Roy and giggling like school kids. They discuss the texts obsessively, also like school kids. Grace so doesn’t want to know anything more about _that_ situation.

That much can’t be said for a certain amateur sleuth to whom she’s tethered herself for all eternity.

“Wait,” says Frankie one night when they’re lounging on the sofa bed. Grace is still getting through _Fates and Furies_ ; life keeps getting in the way. (It had been hard to feel like reading in the home, where doing anything for quiet pleasure felt less like an indulgence and more like a life sentence.) She’s trying to make it through a chapter while simultaneously having TV night with Frankie--which is to say, ‘watch TV on the tiny phone screen’ night. God, she misses their living room.

Robert and Sol are cackling about something out in their own living room. The sound is unnervingly frequent lately around here.

“Wait wait wait,” Frankie goes on, pressing pause on the phone, “I’ve heard of this.”

“You can’t hear anything,” Grace taunts affectionately.

“What’s the word?” Frankie sways from side to side, her shoulder brushing Grace’s and then leaving and then brushing again. Frankie waves her hands like she’s trying to pick the lost word out of the air. Then, with a triumphant clap: “Throople. They’re a throople with this Roy! Roy’s the _throop_!!!”

“What the hell are any of the words that you’re saying?” Grace asks, laughing.

“A throople, Grace. A three person couple.”

“Wouldn’t that make it pronounced ‘throuple’?”

“Oh, come on. That doesn’t sound right at all. The point is: all the millennials are doing it now. And apparently at least a few _non_ -millennials.” Frankie wiggles her eyebrows.

The idea is too terrible -- not to mention really, really, really really fucking annoying -- to contemplate.

“No,” Grace says. “Oh, no.”

“I bet you fifty bucks,” Frankie says.

Grace knows there’s no way Frankie has fifty bucks on her--maybe a frozen yogurt shop gift card with 89 cents left on it if she’s really killing it in the organization department today--but what else is there to do around here?

“You’re on,” Grace says.

They shake on it, then go back to watching TV on Frankie’s phone.

“Thank you for watching Longmire with me.” Frankie snuggles against Grace’s shoulder. “I couldn’t stand it alone. But what was I going to do? Stop watching? I think the fuck not.”

“Well, thank you for the recaps,” Grace replies. “I feel so … caught up.”

In truth, Grace has no idea what’s going on, but that doesn’t bother her so much. It’s nice to just to sit together and stare at the tiny, smudgy screen. Frankie never cleans her phone regularly, no matter how often Grace nags or how many microfiber cloths Grace leaves in her studio.

Left in her studio.

“I couldn’t let Jacob have Longmire,” Frankie says. “That might as well have been an official declaration that he’s won this breakup.”

“You’re totally winning the breakup,“ Grace says supportively.

“Tell me about it. You’re way hotter than Winnie. Hey.” Frankie brightens devilishly. “Can I post a selfie of us on Longmire night?”

Grace sighs. “If you must.”

She checks Facebook later when they’re all tucked into bed and drowsing off, Frankie's side pressing warm and familiar against her back. (The sofa bed isn't big enough for the luxury of leaving any space between them, but her old friend claustrophobia is the least of her worries right now, and she's gotten pretty used to being kicked by Frankie at three a.m.)

There’s the picture. It’s not especially flattering, but Grace realizes that she doesn’t mind much. So what if she’s not always a septuagenarian beauty queen? She looks happy. Loose. Younger than she feels.

The caption reads, _longmire night with the BAE! [heart emoji] [kissy face emoji]_

“Doesn’t ‘bae’ mean romantic partner?” Grace asks.

“It could stand for ‘best acquaintance ever,’” Frankie says sleepily.

“I’m touched.”

“And if Winnie thinks _I_ parted ways with Jacob to pursue a love affair with a magnificent ice queen, so be it. Hashtag winning-the-breakup.”

Grace rolls her eyes and just thanks her lucky stars that Frankie didn’t actually use that hashtag. People are confused enough about their relationship as it is. Hell, Grace used to be the most confused of all. But since Frankie’s come back, it’s been different. It’s like a strange calm has settled over them, an easy affection that she _knows_ is never going anywhere. Grace doesn’t entirely trust being this sure, but she’s decided to let it alone. She doesn’t want to spook it. Everything else in her life has proven fragile enough lately.

And speaking of--

A comment from Mallory pops up under the picture. _Beautiful ladies! Miss you._

Grace sighs and puts down her phone. “Goodnight, Frankie.”

“‘Night, Kev,” Frankie murmurs.


	4. old lady talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your kudos and comments on the first chunk of this story, y'all!
> 
> Due to the fact that I've got a bunch of stuff I should be doing that is _not_ weeping into Word docs over Grace and Frankie, this story is mostly going to consist of little somewhat-standalone snippets, new ones of which will be added occasionally. And to be honest, it is mostly just an excuse to write silly Grace and Frankie banter. :)

Frankie dances into the kitchen the next morning; Grace is sitting at the breakfast bar, sprinkling newly washed blueberries into her bowl of Cheerios. Sol went out for pastries. When he gets back, she thinks she’ll have one of those too.

Back when Sheree had first moved in, and Grace was caught somewhere in between relief (a human distraction!) and stupid heartbreak (it made no sense, it wasn’t like Frankie wasn’t available by phone at any time; it wasn’t like Grace hadn’t been alone her whole adult life in all the ways that mattered anyway, and she should have been ready for it again, she shouldn’t have let it blindside her like it did). Sheree had made brownies one night as a thank-you for Grace taking her in, and Grace had picked at one in an attempt to be polite. The tiny bites she allowed herself were so delicious she nearly wept. Sheree, who was still fragile after losing Ed, had actually burst into tears at Grace’s all-but-untouched plate, thinking the brownies were inedible. The only thing worse than not being able to eat a damn brownie when your heart was broken, Grace had discovered then, was realizing you’d just made a new widow cry. Grace had tried to explain and talked way too much, words spilling out of her mouth in a way that made Sheree stop crying, yes, but also made her look at Grace with a kind of concern that turned Grace’s stomach. ‘You’re a great person and an amazing friend,’ Sheree had said, touching Grace’s cheek. ‘But I wish you would be a little nicer to yourself, honey.’

So she’s trying. Even now.

Hell, especially now.

“Ready to give me fifty bucks?” Frankie asks cheekily, doing a little shimmy.

“Frankie, it’s a rare day when I don’t give you fifty bucks.”

Frankie reaches down her blouse and pulls out a phone.

“So you’re still doing that, huh?” Grace so doesn’t want to know how many times her own phone has found itself in Frankie’s shirt.

“I stole it from Robert when he went to take a shower. _And_ he just put it down, so it hasn’t locked itself yet.”

“ _Frankie_!” Grace scolds. “Put that back!”

“I will not!” says Frankie. “You’re only telling me to do that because you don’t want to be parted from your sweet, sweet dough. I’m not falling for it, sister.”

“And because taking other people’s private property is wrong.”

Frankie ignores her. She’s too busy fiddling with the phone. “Hah!!” she cries victoriously. “Here’s their group text with Roy. And--” Her eyes get huge.

Grace caves. She peers over Frankie’s shoulder. “Let me see that--”

And, well, her eyes probably get huge too. She jumps back.

“I take it back. Don’t let me see that. I wanted to enjoy my breakfast.”

“Boy, am I glad I’m getting fifty bucks out of this scenario,” Frankie says numbly. “I think if I buy enough Del Taco, it will help to drown out the memories.”

“I’ll join you,” Grace says desperately.

“Oh shit,” Frankie says. “That means this is really bad.”

“It’s official,” Grace declares. “We can’t live here anymore. We need to get out of here.”

“Before Roy shows up!”

“Oh, _God_ , I hadn’t even thought of that.”

“How could you not think of that?”

“Because I was too busy thinking of … _that_!” Grace waves her hand crazily at the phone.

“It’s not bad,” Frankie says fairly.

“Isn’t it?” Grace asks, cringing. “Call me old-fashioned, but I never need to see any of that. Not in my text messages, not in real life. I’m perfectly content just to know it’s … doing its work down there.”

“Seriously?” says Frankie, looking violently torn between being aghast and amused.

Not for the first time in her life, Grace feels like she missed a day at How To Be A Woman school.

“They’re not exactly aesthetically pleasing,” she huffs.

Frankie makes an ‘ehhh’ face.

“Except on your ceramics, of course,” Grace adds diplomatically.

“That’s better,” says Frankie, making prayer hands. “Thank you, Grace.”

“The point of all this,” Grace says, flustered, “is that we need to get the hell out.”

“Big time,” Frankie agrees. “And can I just say: fuck my previously trusted friend, the universe, for having the kids put _us_ in a home because your knee was slightly sore and I took a tiny detour in the pursuit of ice cream, while their dads are going through what is clearly some kind of late-in-life psychosexual sharknado! Though,” she says, looking contrite, “far be it from me to judge a healthy throople of consenting adults.”

“It’s definitely pronounced ‘throuple’,” Grace tells her distractedly. “I looked it up.” An idea is occurring to her.

“Well, that’s dumb,” says Frankie, wounded. “Why would you pronounce anything like that? It doesn’t roll off the tongue at all. It thuds off the tongue. Thrupple. Thrawwwwpple. Thr-oh-uh-pple--”

While Frankie experiments in linguistics, Grace gives into the evil plan that just bloomed in her brain. She grabs the phone back from Frankie and gets to work.

“What are you doing?” Frankie asks.

“I’m taking screenshots of this conversation and sending them to myself,” Grace reports, “so that we have them to send to the kids when we’re feeling especially like revenge.”

“Grace Hanson,” says Frankie solemnly, “you are a monster, and the love of my life. And my death. And my second, current life.”

Grace finishes the whirl of screenshotting and sending and deleting (always remember to delete the evidence: that’s the number one rule of espionage), then takes a bow and blows Frankie a kiss. Frankie cheers.

“What are you two so excited about?” comes Robert’s voice, getting louder.

Grace hurriedly sets his phone on the counter, then shoves a big spoonful of soggy cereal into her mouth. Meanwhile Frankie grabs a blueberry out of Grace’s bowl, tosses it in the air, tries to catch it in her mouth, and fails. It bounces off of Grace’s cheek.

“Really?” Grace hisses.

“I’m cazh, man,” Frankie mutters into Grace’s hair.

Robert strolls in in his bathrobe. “What’s going on in here?”

“Oh, nothing,” says Frankie innocently, leaning on Grace.

“Old lady talk,” Grace contributes, trying to look like she enjoys Frankie’s elbow jutting into her thyroid.

“Terrifying,” Robert teases.

“Buddy,” Frankie mutters into Grace’s ear as he walks way, “you have no idea.”

“What?” Robert turns back.

“Asparagus!” Frankie shouts.

“Right. I’m sorry I asked.” Robert goes into the bedroom.

“Well played, Elizabeth Jennings,” Grace mutters.

“It’s very natural for me to be discussing asparagus at any given time, Grace,” Frankie says loftily. “He won’t suspect a thing.”

“Can you stand up straight now?” Grace says pointedly. Frankie’s casual stance is starting to feel unbearably like a throat punch.

“That’s a good question,” Frankie says, cringing. Her back always seems to be extra stiff in the morning these days. Grace blames the sofa bed.

She adjusts Frankie’s arm, making her stance less elbow-to-the-throat and more arm-around-Grace’s-shoulders, then wraps her arm around Frankie’s waist to make sure she doesn’t face plant onto the counter. The kids will probably have them euthanized if any more injury stories get back to them--

“Oh, God!” Frankie cries.

Grace tenses, worried. “What hurts?”

“Nothing. Well, nothing physical. But you just reminded me: we haven’t caught up on The Americans yet.”

“Ah yes,” Grace deadpans. “Our most pressing life problem right now.”

“Well, it’s not our least!” Frankie exclaims.

And, well …

“True,” Grace has to admit.


	5. huzzah, it's a date!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everybody who has been reading! :) Here, have 1,800 words of Del Taco madness. I have never spent so much time looking at a restaurant chain's website before in my life, especially for a restaurant that does not even exist where I live.

They go to Del Taco that afternoon for Frankie’s victory feast. Grace hands her a fifty dollar bill once they’ve stepped inside and gotten in line.

“Go crazy,” she instructs.

Frankie squeals and does a little victory dance.

Once they get to the front of the line, Frankie says with regal dignity, “I’ll take twenty queso bean burritos, queso-loaded nachos up the wazoo, one avocado veggie bowl, one signature taco salad without meat or cheese, and two large fountain drinks.”

It really speaks to her credibility here that none of the employees behind the counter give that order a second glance. Not even ‘up the wazoo,’ which has become a respected unit of measurement.

“You eat a lot of cheese for a vegan,” Grace says for approximately the millionth time.

“Oh, Grace,” says Frankie for approximately the millionth time, “it’s not  _ real _ cheese. It’s all synthetic. Science and deception birthed that cheese. Have I told you my theory that I’m becoming slightly more radioactive with every queso binge?”

“Our cheese is made from the finest natural ingredients,” pipes up the girl behind the counter for approximately the millionth time. She’s soundly ignored.

“Yes,” says Grace, “you’ve told me your theory.”

“Look at me very closely after we’re finished eating,” Frankie instructs. “I’m sixty to eighty percent positive I’ll be subtly glowing. Even more so than usual, that is.”

The order winds up costing well over fifty bucks. Frankie insists that twenty burritos will come in handy (“We can give the extras to Robert and Sol in the form of edible rent”), so Grace rolls her eyes and pays with her card. To get even, Grace forces Frankie to get ice water at the soft drink fountain instead of making an ungodly blend of sodas and lemonade, her usual tactic.

They sit down at Frankie’s favorite table. There never seems to be anyone there when they come. Well, there was a family sitting there once, but Frankie glared at them from the next table over for a solid forty-two minutes, and they got the message. Since then, word appears to have spread throughout La Jolla.

Frankie sets her tray down and looks at its contents.

“Oh yes,” she says with satisfaction. “Come to Mama.”

She pushes Grace’s salad across the table, sets the veggie bowl in the middle where they can both pick at it, and then begins her feast. Meanwhile, Grace looks up apartment rentals on her phone. It’s the smart thing to do. They have to get out of Sol and Robert’s, and buying a place makes no sense, not when everything is so up in the air. Sure, there’s something depressing about looking for a rental for you and your roommate when you’re not twenty years old, but it’s the best option, objectively speaking. It’s not like they can go back home. Home, where some other family will be making a home in their house. Or, hell, just going there on occasional weekends and vacations from work, leaving it to sit all alone the rest of the time, lights off, empty and still.

_ How? _ cries a pitiful, aching voice inside her.  _ How, how, how could this happen? _

Her misery is interrupted by a phone call.

Nick.

Grace slams her fingertip over ‘Ignore.’ Fuck this. In fact, fuck  _ all _ of this.

“Oh, give me one of those.” She reaches for Frankie’s nachos. Cheese sticks to her fingers as she shoves the chip into her mouth.

Frankie lets out a bark of surprised, delighted laughter.

In spite of herself, Grace is encouraged by that.

“You’re really showing those nachos who’s boss,” says Frankie, “and I gotta say, I’m feeling it.”

“Good,” says Grace through a mouthful. (Her mother must be rolling in her grave.) “Because I’m taking more. Actually,” she adds as she swipes them, “these are legally my nachos, so I don’t even know why I’m clearing it with you first.”

“Probably because you’re all about manners and shit, milady,” says Frankie. She looks down at Grace’s phone. “Who called?”

“Nobody.”

“The same nobody who’s been calling and texting every day since you kicked him to the curb?”

“The very same.”

“Hmm,” says Frankie. She seems to sense for once that Grace doesn’t want to wander any further down that road. Thank God. “You’ve got cheese on your face.”

Grace feels a flush of embarrassment, and reaches for a napkin. (Frankie always forgets to grab napkins, but Grace never does, so it balances itself out.) She dabs at the corner of her mouth.

“Other side,” says Frankie. “Higher -- no, now lower. No, higher. To the left--right? Left? Definitely left--”

“Is this a prank?” Grace demands.

“Oh, let me,” says Frankie, grabbing the napkin and dabbing at Grace’s cheek. If anyone--really,  _ anyone _ \--else tried to do this, Grace would kill them. But Frankie has done so many ordinarily homicide-worthy things to Grace that at this point, it’s hard to even mind. It’s kind of nice to have someone around you all the time who’ll make sure you don’t look like a complete fool. Like a personal assistant or a husband, but useful. “There. Voila! You’re a masterpiece!”

A random employee wiping up a nearby table looks their way. Service industry workers flock to Frankie like Frankie flocks to everything Liev Schreiber has ever done. Even that movie about a zombie outbreak on Mars. (Two hours of her life Grace will never get back, by the way.)

And fine, the kid’s not just some random employee. His name is Kyle. Grace has been here so many times that it would be more worrying if she hadn’t learned some names.

“What are you looking at?” Grace asks.

“Nothing,” Kyle says. “It’s just, uh, you ate cheese.”

“ _ Right _ ??” says Frankie, like this is somehow a momentous occasion.

“Well, this is a restaurant,” Grace answers. Under her breath, she adds, “Of sorts.”

“I thought you were allergic to all food that wasn’t lettuce,” he says to Grace, awed.

“No, that’s my daughter-in-law,” she answers wryly. Then she realizes what she said. “ _ Her _ daughter-in-law.” She points at Frankie. God, she’s losing it.

“We’re basically one big beautiful stew of Bergstein-Hanson-Giampietro-Smikowitzes,” Frankie explains. It never ceases to amaze Grace that Frankie can remember Allison’s insane last name, but not where her glasses are. (Usually on her head. Currently in Grace’s purse.)

“That’s really nice,” says Kyle earnestly. “I hope baby Faith is doing good.”

“Oh, she’s flourishing,” Frankie says with a radiant smile.

Just a smidge too radiant.

“Cool,” says Kyle. He gives them a last smile and the table a last wipe, then moves along.

“... I think,” Frankie adds quietly. Grace watches the light go out of her.

“I’ll eat a burrito,” Grace offers desperately without thinking. All she knows is that it seems like the fastest way to cheer Frankie up. “ _ Two  _ burritos--”

“Even if we’re really, really pissed at them,” Frankie says wistfully, oblivious to Grace’s offer, “and even if they Yellow Wallpapered us without even doing us the courtesy of trapping us in a place with a psychedelic pattern … we can’t ever forward the kids the texts from Dick Pic Roy, can we?”

Grace spears an avocado in her salad.

“No,” she admits grudgingly.

“I didn’t think so,” Frankie says. “Being a mom really bites sometimes.”

“Being an old lady really bites,” Grace says with a dark scoff of a laugh.

“I dunno, the senior discount at the movies doesn’t suck.”

“I was thinking more the getting-put-in-assisted-living while your same aged ex-husbands are living it up with Dick Pic Roy.”

“Well, yeah,” says Frankie morosely. “That does suck.”

“You know how people would describe them these days?  _ Distinguished _ . Or, hell, fun and fancy-free. You know how they’d describe you and me?”

“Sad,” Frankie says. She heaves a soft little sigh.

Grace had been wanting to get a little more colorful -- throw in a reference to a crypt or something -- but really, that says it all.

“Yeah,” she agrees. “Sad.”

She snags another nacho from across the table, and looks up to find Frankie watching her with a fond crinkly-eyed smile.

“I could watch you eat nachos all day,” she says.

“Well, you won’t,” says Grace, “so savor it while you can.”

“Will do,” Frankie says, resting her chin on her hand like a lovestruck teenager.

Frankie proceeds to stare at her while she eats, which is something Grace usually hates. She tries to be annoyed and unsettled by it, but there’s something about Frankie’s face that makes her heart all warm and useless, the way people get looking at puppies. It’s inexplicable. It’s a force that should be studied in laboratories.

“Hey, I know. Let’s go to the movies,” Frankie suggests, reaching across the table to touch Grace’s arm. “I’m in the mood for a good senior discount. Ooh, let’s see the one where my cute British doppelganger fucks the sexy fish.”

“With an invitation like that,” says Grace, “how could I refuse?”

“Huzzah, it’s a date! Quick, put the rest of these in your purse. Then we’ll have movie burritos--”

“Frankie, for the last time, this purse wasn’t made to hold your movie burritos--”

“Well, that’s just silly, Grace. A purse can hold anything. Don’t tell her what she can’t do. I believe in you, Minerva!”

“Her name is  _ not _ Minerva. She doesn’t have a name! And she’s not a her. She’s an it--”

“The politically correct term is ‘zhe’--”

“You’ve got your own purse right there, Frankie; fill  _ that  _ with your ten thousand leftovers--”

“Are you crazy? If Pursula gets lost, then so do the burritos! Get your head in the game--”

“Mrs. and Mrs. Hanson-Bergstein!” comes a familiar voice. Grace looks over to see Officer Torres standing in line. He waves.

“Where does he get this from?” Grace mutters to Frankie.

Grace had tried once to explain to him that Frankie wasn’t her wife, but it had mostly seemed to just confuse him. It’s really a terrible quality in a police detective.

“Beats me,” Frankie mutters back. “Now put my burritos in your purse!”

Once they’ve thrown their trash away--and Grace’s very expensive purse has been stuffed with leftovers, because this is her fucking lot in life--they head toward the exit.

“Hello Officer Torres,” Grace says on the way past him, making sure not to slow down. Her patience with people these days is shockingly limited, even by her standards.

Frankie gives him a cheery wave, but lets Grace drag her out into the sunshine.

“If he and Mallory get married one day,” Grace says (it seems unlikely; as far as Grace can tell, the most progress he’s made is liking a few of Mal’s Facebook posts), “we really need to explain the actual situation. Hey, you can make another PowerPoint. You’re getting pretty good.”

“Oh, why break his heart?” says Frankie benevolently.

“If you say so. Come on, Mrs. Hanson-Bergstein.” Grace offers her arm, and together they stroll to the car. For the first time in ages, it doesn’t feel like failing to walk a little slower than she used to. Frankie leans into her like a cat curving toward the sun, and doesn’t seem to mind a bit.


End file.
